


The More You Ignore Me (The Closer I Get)

by thusspakekate (orphan_account)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, Het, Secret Relationship, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-09
Updated: 2013-09-09
Packaged: 2017-12-26 03:40:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,600
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/961158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/thusspakekate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been a month since Harry broke up with Pansy Parkinson, and he can't get her out of his head. Literally.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The More You Ignore Me (The Closer I Get)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the inaugural round of LJ's fortheloveofhp fest.

_I am now a central part of your mind's landscape whether you care or do not – Morrissey_

Pale, morning light filtered into the darkened room through the half-shuttered blinds. Harry yawned and stretched, basking in the warmth and softness of his bed. It wasn’t often that he woke before the alarm rang, and he enjoyed the mornings where he could lounge in bed for a few minutes, drifting in the hazy, dream-like space between sleep and wakefulness. Rolling onto his side, he pulled the covers over him, only to find his nose pressed up against a curtain of jet black hair.

Mind slowed by slumber, he reached out as if still in a dream and brushed back the strands, exposing a pale neck and bare shoulder. “Pansy?” he asked, his voice thick and uncertain with sleep. “How'd you get in here?”

She made a quiet, sleepy noise, and yanked the covers, stealing half of them with one strong tug. Harry scooted closer, deciding he didn't care how or why she was there, not when her skin was warm and soft against his own and the curve of her bum fit so perfectly between his hips. Memories of a half-forgotten dream trickled to the surface of his consciousness, and he pulled her tight against him, wrapping his free arm around her middle.

“Too tired,” she complained, even as she pressed against him, arching her back and grinding her arse against his half-hard cock. He ghosted his hands down her side, trailing over the curve of her breasts and the dip of her waist. His hand slid between her legs and cupped her mound, feeling the heat that radiated from beneath her knickers.

“Good morning,” he whispered against her skin, pressing a soft kiss on her shoulder. He could feel her shiver as his fingers traced the elastic band of her knickers.

“I said I'm too tired,” she groaned, more awake—and annoyed—than before. Wiggling out of his grip, she rolled over, eyes still shut and a tiny smile playing at the corners of her pale lips. 

She burrowed against him, the tip of her small nose pressed against his sternum. Her hair tickled his face, but instead of brushing it away, he closed his eyes and took a deep breath, inhaling the faint floral scent of her shampoo. Even though there was a slow burning need in his groin, he'd gladly stay like this for a while, just enjoying the feel of her body pressed against his, taking comfort in their stolen moments together. 

His hands continued to roam, tracing the small of her back, sliding beneath her baggy sleep shirt to cup her arse and squeeze. “Later then?”

She tilted her head back and pressed a gentle kiss to the underside of his jaw. In a quiet, sad voice, she said, “No.”

He paused, fingers still digging into the soft skin of her backside. “Why not?”

“Because I'm not really here.”

Harry opened his eyes to find that the sea of empty sheets next to him were cold. The pillow he had clutched to his chest smelled vaguely of lavender shampoo.

***

It didn't make any sense that she would be here. She'd told him once that she'd rather eat her own shoe than set foot in the Leaky Cauldron. It stank of broken dreams and boiled cabbage, she'd said. And yet, the hair on his arms stood at attention and his skin prickled with an acute awareness of her proximity. 

He could imagine what she must look like, sitting behind him in the corner booth like she was queen of the damned pub, with a smug smile and a slow burning cigarette dangling between her red-painted lips as she cataloged his every movement with talon-sharp eyes. But when he stretched his arms and stole a peek over his shoulder, the booth behind him was empty except for a dirty martini glass and a smoldering ashtray.

Something flashed in the corner of his eye, and he turned quickly in its direction.

There was nothing there.

Harry shook his head and tried to focus on the woman in front of him. She had dimples and a slight gap between her two front teeth, which made her shy with her smiles. She was Ernie Macmillan's cousin, Angela. Or was it Abigail? It was something with an 'a' at least. Harry felt terrible that he'd forgotten already, but how was he expected to concentrate on someone else when he could feel that _she_ was there, lurking just beyond his peripheral vision?

“So...” he began, drumming his fingers on the sticky tabletop as he searched for something to say. “Ernie tells me you work at the Ministry?”

Angela or Abigail turned a pretty pink when she blushed. “In Magical Creatures. Just boring admin stuff, really. Nothing so glamorous as being an Auror.”

Harry considered telling her that being an Auror was more paperwork than anything, but decided against it. She'd probably just think he was being modest anyway. “I'm surprised I haven't seen you there before. My work takes me to the Pest Advisory Bureau more than you'd imagine.”

“We shared a lift once actually,” she said, her pretty pink blush deepening. “It was a Friday afternoon, and we reached for the lobby button at the same time. I asked if you had any plans for the weekend, but you said that you were just planning to relax at home.”

“Oh?” It was such a small, trivial interaction, hardly with noting. “Yeah, I think I remember that.”

She grinned, her dimples and gap on display. “You do?”

Just then, Harry felt find-boned hands slide over his shoulders. Instinct froze him in place when warm breath tickled his neck and teeth scraped against his skin. Into his ear, a woman's voice— _her_ voice—whispered, “Liar.”

His eyes flew to Angela/Abigail, but she just sat there watching him expectantly.

“You're lying to her, just like you lied to me,” the voice drawled. “It comes so easy to you, the lying. The pretty words, the empty promises. You want people to think you're so honest, so noble. But I know the real you, Potter. I know that you're a liar just like any other man.”

A wave of panic crashed over him. Harry jumped in his seat, shouting, “No!”

Angela's dimples disappeared. “So you don't remember then?”

One sharp, pointed nail trailed down the side of his neck. Her voice was low and sultry, slithering inside Harry's ear to send a chill down his spine. “There's an honestly in lying. A liar always does what he wants, gets what he wants. There's a certain freedom in dishonestly, don't you think?” she asked. “I wonder if Pollyanna over there would agree. But no, she doesn't seem the type to appreciate life's finer philosophical distinctions. She'd be so disappointed to know that you'd say almost anything for a chance to get into her knickers.”

Through clenched teeth, Harry grit out, “It's not like that.”

Abigail/Angela blinked. “Not like what?” 

Harry rushed to his feet, knocking his chair over in his haste. “Excuse me a minute,” he mumbled. “Need the loo.” 

Tearing off in the direction of the loo, he almost barreled into a man playing Wizard's Darts. Once inside, he locked the door with a spell and slumped against the wall. He just needed a moment to clear his head, to pull his shit together. He must be imagining things, maybe even hallucinating. There was no way she was actually here, whispering into his ear one minute only to disappear without a trace a second later.

Once his breathing returned to normal, he opened his eyes. She was there, sitting on the counter wearing a sinfully tight red dress and a smirk. One of her high-heeled shoes was dangling off the tip of her big toe. “Surprised to see me?” she asked with a laugh.

“What are you doing here? Are you even here at all? What did you do to me? How 'd you get inside my head?” he demanded in a rush. She just continued to smile at him, despite the threat in his voice. 

“Well, that's the twenty-five thousand galleon question, isn't it?” She kicked her shoe away and toed off the other. “It's your head. You tell me.”

“A spell. You cast some sort of spell on me. This is your idea of revenge.”

Pansy tipped her head back and laughed. It was a deep, throaty laugh, nothing like the high-pitched, breathless giggles she made when she was sincerely amused. “You're awfully full of yourself, Potter. What makes you think you even meant that much to me? And besides, if I wanted to hurt you, I could think of a number of ways better than slinking around in your brain. It's a bit dull in here, actually.”

She slid off the counter and stalked towards him in her bare feet. Harry took a step back, watching her carefully, unwilling to let her out of his line of sight.

“So not a spell then. What else are you thinking? Astral projection, maybe? But no, you don't really believe in all that new age hogwash. Even if astral projection were real, we both know I'm way too lazy to master such complicated magic.”

Harry's back hit the wall, but she kept coming forward, until her body was pressed against his. He could feel her breasts against his chest, her thigh pushing its way between his own. Heat pooled in his groin, a natural and unavoidable reaction to her proximity, a conditioned response he'd give anything to not feel at this moment.

“That only leaves one other option,” she drawled, lifting his chin with one finger, forcing him to look into her eyes. “I'm quite obviously a manifestation of your subconscious. I'm only here because you want me to be.” She slid her hand between their bodies, down to cup the growing bulge in his trousers. He closed his eyes and tried to will her away, but was too distracted by the gentle massage her hand was giving his prick. “The real question is _why_ I'm here. What do you think I represent? Your guilt? Shame? Maybe your secret desires?”

She popped open the button of his trousers and slid down the zip. 

“I have nothing to feel guilty about,” he said, voice shaking. 

Her hand slipped inside, and she began to stroke him despite the awkward angle. Her perfume hung heavy in the air, surrounding him like a well-worn cloak and making him dizzy.

She tangled her other hand in his hair, pulling his head back. Peppering the line of his throat with soft kisses that made him groan, she mumbled against his skin, “Nothing? Not even the way you used me?”

He wanted to tell her to stop, but her hand felt so good, so familiar, wrapped around his cock, pumping him at a leisurely pace. He wanted to not want it, but he wanted it desperately, wanted _her_ desperately. “I didn't,” he tried to argue, but forming words was getting difficult. His mouth was dry and his tongue felt heavy. “We...we were using each other. It was just sex.”

Abruptly, she stopped. Hand still holding onto his cock, she stepped back a pace and looked at him, head tilted. “Just sex?” she repeated. “If it was just sex, why I am here?”

“Don't know,” he said, pushing his hips forward, trying to get her to touch him again, but she pulled her hand away. “No, please,” he begged, reaching for her. 

She sidestepped out of his reach and gave him a small, sidelong smirk before dropping to her knees. He hissed as the rough fabric scratched the tender skin of his cock when she yanked his denims down. She cradled him in her hands as though his cock and balls were a precious treasure. “I'm here because it was more than just sex.” 

She leaned forwarding, nuzzling the base of his cock with the tip of her nose. “I'm here because you can't let me go,” she said, voice muffled as she licked the length of his veiny underside with the tip of her tongue, stopping to lave the divot between shaft and glans with extra care. “Admit it, Potter. I'm under your skin.”

Harry's mind reeled, working double time to process all that he was feeling and all that she was saying. If he wasn't mad already, he would be soon. In the back of his mind, he knew he should put a stop to whatever this was, but he'd never been able to control himself where she was concerned. Even a fucking hallucination of her had a power over him that he couldn't explain.

His thighs shook as her tongue swirled across the fleshy head of his cock, narrowing to a stiff point so she could lap the gathering precome from his slit. She pulled away, tongue held out, proudly displaying the little bead of white that sat on the tip. Harry groaned at the sight, his balls growing tight as he remembered how beautiful she'd always looked with her face painted in thick stripes of it.

She bent down and twisted her head, holding his cock out of the way so she could take each of his balls into her mouth in turn, bathing each one with gentle little kitten-licks that made his toes curl in his trainers. Soft bites on his inner thighs were followed by a broad lick up the length of his shaft, until she was back at the top, her swollen lips hovering a mere inch above his cockhead. 

“Do you think Pollyanna out there can do this for you?” she asked. “Will she worship your cock the way I do? Do you think there is _any_ woman alive who can do the things to you that I can?”

Even in his state of need, Harry knew that he was being manipulated, that she was holding his cock ransom, trying to coax the words she wanted to hear from him. But he didn't care, because it was true. In some twisted way, she was right. No one, before or since her, had been able to make Harry feel the way she did: desperate, delirious, desired.

Heart pounding so loudly he could hear it over his desperate gulps for air, he gasped, “No. Only you.”

She smirked again. “Good answer.” Tossing her hair over her shoulder, she readjusted her grip, her eyes narrowing on the cock in her hands. 

Finally, Harry thought with relief, letting his eyes close and his head fall back. He had missed this. Missed her.

Suddenly, there was a heavy thump against the door. The doorknob rattled and a voice yelled, “Oi? Anyone in there? I've got to take a slash!”

Harry cursed under his breath; what perfect fucking timing. Groaning, he opened his eyes to find that Pansy had disappeared again, leaving him alone in the bathroom with his prick hanging out, jutting out stupidly into the empty air. 

He winced as he shoved himself back inside his pants and fumbled to redo his trousers. “Just a minute!” he called back. Rushing over to the sink, he turned on the cold water tap, collecting a handful to splash onto his face. He looked up into the mirror; his face was red and splotchy, his bangs sticking to his forehead with sweat. 

Another knock on the door. “You all right in there?”

“I said just a minute!”

He fussed with his hair, trying to ignore the painful throbbing in his pants. Unlocking the door with a flick of his wand, the man on the other side hurried into the bathroom, one hand already reaching down to unbutton his flies. He stopped, took one look at Harry, and let out a low whistle. “Holy hell, mate, you look like shit. Too much to drink?”

Harry waved the man away and shouldered past him. Angela/Abigail was still at the table, exactly where he'd left her. Her bored look morphed into one of concern when she saw him approaching.

“Are you all right?” she asked, jumping to her feet.

He dodged her outstretched arms. “I should probably go, I think I'm getting sick,” he lied. “I wouldn't want you to catch it.”

There were no dimples or gap-toothed smiles this time. She simply nodded. “That's all right, we can reschedule for another time once you're feeling better. Owl me?”

He had no intention of doing anything of the sort, but still agreed. He gave her the best apologetic smile he could muster and Apparated home, landing clumsily in his living room. He paced the room, then the hallways, and eventually his bedroom, waiting for Pansy—or whatever the hell she was—to return and finish what she'd started. 

Of course, she never did.

 

***

Harry was halfway through lunch at a small cafe near the Ministry when he looked up from his sandwich to find that Pansy was standing behind Hermione, a mischievous grin on her face. Oblivious, Hermione continued to chat on about the work she was doing in the Goblin Liaison office.

He sent Pansy a look, begging _not here, not now,_ with his eyes. Her smirk widened.

“I think Crazthorn is finally starting to trust me,” Hermione said as she reached for a crisp. “It's been at least two weeks since anything has disappeared from my office!”

Harry watched in horror as Pansy stepped closer and reached out, smoothing in her hand down the length of Hermione's hair. Hermione continued to munch on her food, unaware that she was being petted by a hallucination of Harry's ex-lover. 

“Uh, that's great,” he forced out when he remembered that he was supposed to be in the middle of a conversation. “Remind me about that case you're working on?”

Hermione beamed. She launched into the background of the case. It wasn't anything Harry hadn't already heard three times before. Instead of listening, his eyes were glued to Pansy's hand where it thread through Hermione's hair.

“Very clever, Potter. That should keep her preoccupied.” Pansy's fingers twisted around the bottom of one of Hermione's curls. “She's a very pretty woman, don't you think?”

Harry knew better than to respond. He wasn't going to play her game this time, especially not with Hermione sitting right there.

“Oh, don't play coy with me. I know you've noticed how attractive she is. I know you catch yourself looking at her sometimes, checking out her arse or tits without even realizing you're doing it. You always feel so terrible, like you've betrayed her somehow. Betrayed your Weasel, as well.”

Pansy walked out from behind Hermione and squatted down next to her. Harry could see Hermione's mouth still moving, her hands gesticulating as she talked, but her voice was inaudible, muted, as if she were speaking underwater. 

“It's perfectly natural of course. To be curious. To want what you know you shouldn't.” Pansy reached up and cupped Hermione's face in her palm, running the pad of her thumb over Hermione's lips as they moved. “I once wanted someone that I knew I shouldn't.”

Harry licked his lips, unsure if he wanted to know, unsure if it was even safe to ask. “Who?” he asked hoarsely.

She lowered her hand from Hermione's face and looked at right at him. “Why, you, of course.”

She dropped to all fours and crawled the short distance across the floor to sit at his feet, resting a hand on either of his knees. Batting her eyelashes, she purred, “Didn't you know, Potter? I've always wanted you.”

In his chest, Harry's heart skipped a nervous beat. “You have?”

A short, cruel laugh. “You wish.” Her grin turned sly, devious even. “Although I will admit I thought about it once or twice when we were at school.”

Harry sank lower in his seat, his voice dropping in pitch as his curiosity rose. “Thought about what?”

She walked her fingers up his thigh. “About fucking you.” With a sheepish grin, she added, “Whenever I fought with Draco, I thought about what great revenge it would make. Imagine if we had gotten together in school. It would have pissed so many people off.”

His eyes flickered to Hermione, who was still chatting along, blissfully ignorant of what was happening right in front of her. “People would be still be pissed off. If they knew about us, I mean.”

Pansy followed his line of sight and sighed. “I always forget what a coward you can be. Sometimes, I honestly don't know what I see in you.”

And then, as instantly as she appeared, she was gone. Hermione's voice was once again loud and clear as she explained the complexity of Goblin property law. Harry reached for a crisp that he didn't even taste and pretended to listen.

***

Through his omnioculars, Harry searched the sky for a familiar streak of red hair. Despite the excellent private box that Ginny had managed to score for them, she and the other team's seeker were too flying too high for them to see with their naked eyes. 

“Anything?” Ron asked beside him.

“Not yet.”

“Bugger this,” Ron said with a groan. “It's going on the fifth hour and it's hot as bloody bollocks out here.”

Harry lowered his omnioculars. “You can't just leave.”

“Leave? No way! Gin would kick my arse if I even thought about it. I can, however, go down to the clubhouse and get a pint. Coming?”

Harry considered it for a moment. It truly was hot as balls, but he had a feeling that the match would be over soon, and wanted to make sure the box wasn't empty in case Ginny flew by. “Nah, I'm all right.” He dug in his pocket, pulling out a galleon and tossing it to Ron. “Bring one back for me?”

Ron shuffled out of the box, and Harry returned to scanning the empty skies for any sign of the seekers. The clear image of a pale blue sky and fluffy white clouds disappeared, replaced by a distorted blur of bright red.

“She's never going to take you back, you know.”

Startled by the sound of her voice, Harry dropped his omnioculars, and they hit the ground with a crash. Pansy stood directly in front of him, wearing the same damnably tight red dress she'd worn the last two times she'd appeared. 

“Jumpy today, I see.” She bent down and picked up the broken omnioculars between two fingers, holding them away from her though they were a dead rat. “Merlin save us if you represent the best the Auror department has to offer.”

She tossed them in Harry's lap and took the empty seat next to him. Harry groaned, entirely not in the mood for his subconscious to be fucking with him today. “What are you doing here?”

“I fancied taking in a Quidditch match,” she said with a shrug. “What, is that suddenly a crime?”

“But you hate Quidditch.”

“ _I_ don't hate anything, Potter. I'm not real, remember? My corporeal counterpart hates Quidditch. Although, I'm pretty sure she fancies Quidditch players all the same.” 

She turned her face towards the sky and closed her eyes, drawing in a deep breath. Harry couldn't help but think how different she looked in the daylight.

“Anyway, back to what I was saying. She's never going to take you back.”

It took Harry a moment to realize she had spoken. “Sorry, what?”

“Ginny Weasley. She's not going to take you back.”

Harry frowned, fiddling with the broken ominoculars. “I know that,” he said gruffly, trying to twist a piece of bended metal back into place. He wondered how mad he must be to be having this conversation in the first place. “And I wouldn't want her to either.”

Pansy gave a deep, bored-sounding sigh. “You can't lie to me, Potter. I'm in your head, remember?”

“Well, then you should know that I'm telling the truth,” he snapped just as the piece of metal broke off in his hand. “Ginny and I are done, have been for years. It is possible to be friends with your exes, you know.”

With a flourish of her hand, a cigarette appeared between Pansy's fingers. It startled Harry at first, thinking she had somehow learned wandless magic. But then he remembered that anytime they used to have a conversation that even skirted a serious issue, she'd arm herself with a cigarette or two, sometimes even three. His mind must be compensating, he figured, trying to make the version of her he imagined more real.

She took a deep drag and exhaled, twisting her head so that the smoke drifted up into the air. “Does that mean we'll become friends too?”

“I think we would have had to have been friends in the first place for that to happen.”

“Well, we certainly never were that,” she said flatly. She sneaked a glance at him out of the corner of her eye. “And technically speaking, we aren't even exes, are we? That would have required a proper relationship, not just shagging in grimy motel rooms when your do-gooder friends weren't looking.”

Harry wondered if he was imagining the bitterness in her voice. Well, of course he was; he was imagining this whole thing. But _why_ was he imagining bitterness?

“We never shagged in a motel room,” he pointed out. “And before you even start, the hotel in Spain doesn't count. We were on holiday.”

Raising the cigarette to her lips, she looked out over the pitch. “That was a good holiday.”

Something shifted inside Harry's chest, and he looked down at the broken omnioculars in his hand. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “It was.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes, neither bothering to pretend to watch the match. Harry's mind wandered, drifting to the week they'd spent in Majorca. Good holiday was an understatement; it had been the best holiday. Pansy had prepared a three-foot itinerary for their visit, but burned it in a beach bonfire on their first night there. Instead, they'd spent the majority of the time in their room, the door to balcony left open so they could hear the ocean without having to get out of bed. They ordered over-priced room service and drank absurd, fruity cocktails. For six days and seven nights, it'd been like they were the only people left in the world. 

When Pansy finally broke the silence, the wistfulness that had crept into her voice was gone. “So what's wrong with you then?” she asked, clipped and business-like as she ashed her cigarette on the ground next to his foot.

“Excuse me?”

She took a final drag and flicked the cigarette over the side of the viewing box. “You haven't had a girlfriend—a _proper_ girlfriend—since Ginny. That was four years ago. If you're not waiting for her to take you back, then what?”

Her question made him squirm. It was something he'd asked himself before, but had never been able to answer. “I dunno,” he said with a shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Haven't met the right girl yet, I guess.”

She gave him one of her signature snort-laughs. “Bullshit, Potter. You've met me.”

“Oh?” he asked, amused despite himself. “And you think you're the right girl for me?” 

Another twirl of her fingers, another burning cigarette appeared. She took a drag and turned to him, blowing the smoke directly into his face. When it cleared, she said with a smirk, “You must think I am too. Otherwise you'd be able to let me go.”

Harry's amusement was gone, replaced by growing irritation. “I don't know why I keep bringing you back, but it's not—it's not because of that. We had good times— _great_ times, even— but we don't make sense. We would never work in the real world.”

“Do you really believe that?” she asked, scooting closer. Harry held still as she climbed onto his lap, her knees on either side of his hips. It would have been natural for him to rest his hands on her waist, or hips, or even her arse, but he fought the urge to touch her. He didn't want to actively encourage her, though he wasn't going to protest too much either.

She quirked an eyebrow, waiting for his answer. Though it was weak, he was able to force out a stubborn, “Yes.”

“Liar,” she said fondly. She rolled her hips, a sly smile spreading across her face. “You want so desperately for that to be true, but we both know that it's not.” She leaned forward; her voice was low, barely more than a whisper in his ear. “Admit it, Potter. You still want me.” She slid her hand between their bodies to cup him, squeezing. “You _ache_ for me.”

Harry's breath caught in his throat. He wanted to deny it, but how could he? She had him—quite literally—by the balls. And besides, it was true. God, was it true. He missed her so badly that it was a physical pain in his chest whenever he thought about it. 

“I-” he stammered, feeling his resolve break more with every slow grind of her hips. But something that sounded strangely like Hermione's voice pushed through the lust-tinted fog in his mind to remind him that life was not a holiday. He couldn't risk everything for a woman who'd fought on the wrong side of the war, who felt comfortable in seedy places like Knockturn Alley, who sneered whenever he mentioned his friends. They were from different worlds: two irreconcilable worlds. Sex was one thing, but more than that? “I can't.”

Her hips stopped. She leaned back to look at him, head tilted and brows furrowed. Reaching up, she stroked his cheek. “You poor thing,” she said sadly. “You poor, poor thing.”

He tried to nudge her off his lap, but she wouldn't budge. “I'm not a poor thing,” he said defiantly.

“But you are.” Her thumb traced his cheekbone, down to swirl over his bottom lip. “You'd rather be miserable than disappoint your friends. You'd throw away a chance at happiness in order fulfill a role you didn't even choose.” 

He closed his eyes, unable to look at her anymore. “And you wouldn't?” he asked, using every ounce of strength inside himself to keep his voice steady. “You'd go and tell the Malfoys and Zabinis of this world that you were with me? A halfblood? The one who killed your precious Dark Lord? What would they think of you then?”

Without skipping a beat, she answered, “That I'm an enterprising social climber, of course.” She waited for him to laugh, to confirm that he found her as amusing as she found herself. But he saw little humor in her joke. “Oh, Harry. I would have told them and you know it. But now--” she sighed sadly, “there's nothing left to tell.”

Her voice was firm, but sounded fainter, as if growing distant. He opened his eyes to ask what she meant, but was alone once more. A cheer erupted from the surrounding stands, and he looked up just in time to see a three-story image of Ginny on the large screen at the end of the pitch, smiling broadly and holding a Golden Snitch between her fingers.

The game was over.

***

The cobblestones of Diagon Alley were slick, wet from a shower that had broken the day's mild heat. People scurried past, heads down, eager to get from one place to the next. Harry took his time as he strolled down the street. He wasn't particularly anxious to get to The Leaky, where his fourth blind date in as many weeks was waiting. He couldn't say why he kept agreeing to them—they were always painful and awkward—but it wasn't like he had anything better to do. 

From the corner of his eye he caught a glimpse of shiny, dark hair. He froze, heart skipping a beat, until he realized that the black haired woman was not Pansy at all, but Cho Chang. She was sitting at a table outside of Flortescue's, head hung low. He began to walk towards her, eager for an opportunity to put off his date for a few more minutes, until he saw her hand fly from its place on her lap to wipe surreptitiously at her eyes. 

He stopped midstep, unsure of what to do. He'd already decided to talk to her, but she looked like she was crying. Would it be terrible of him to walk away knowing that she was upset? He stood in the middle of the road, torn between two undesirable options, wishing for all the world that he hadn't noticed her in the first place. 

“Go to her.”

At the sound of her voice, Harry whipped around. Pansy was standing right behind him, staring at Cho with a deep frown on her face. “Go to her,” she repeated. “She looks like someone has broken her heart.”

Harry grimaced. “I'm not really good at this sort of thing.”

“That much is obvious. Just do it, Potter. I'll help you.” When he didn't move, she pinched him and hissed, “Go! Be a fucking man!”

Harry resigned himself to the inevitable. Slowly, he approached. “Cho?”

Cho looked up, and immediately turned a violent shade of red. “Oh, Harry!” she said, wiping her puffy eyes. “I didn't see you there. Hi!”

From behind him, Pansy whispered, “Ask her if she's all right.”

Harry sent her a fleeting glare over his shoulder, but turned to Cho, hoping he didn't look nearly as uncomfortable as he felt. “Hey.” He did a silly, awkward wave. “Are you, um...are you all right?”

Cho sank a little in her seat, looking away. The strain of forced brightness was evident in her voice. “I'm fine, Harry. Thanks for asking.” 

Pansy gave him a little shove. “She's trying to be brave. Sit down and ask again. Pretend like you care.”

Harry shuffled forward, settling himself in the chair next to hers. He looked around, feeling ridiculous. “Are you sure? Is there anything... I don't know, that I can help with?”

“Oh, Harry, you're sweet.” When she tried to smile, Harry felt like he was watching a porcelain mask begin to crack. “I'm fine, though. I was just sitting here, having some ice cream.” Her nostrils flared and her lower lip trembled. “Alone.”

He nearly jumped out of his seat when Pansy rested her hands on his shoulder. “Ask her if something happened with Michael.”

There was nothing he'd like to do less than ask Cho that question, but a reassuring-and-maybe-a-little-threatening squeeze from Pansy was all the prompting he needed.

Cho blinked, and a few thin tears slid from the corner of her eyes. Swallowing, she said, “We broke up last week. He asked me to meet him here tonight. I thought he wanted to work it out, to get back together...but he was just giving me back the key to my flat.” She gave a small, watery laugh. “I'm such an idiot.”

“Hey--” Harry reached out and laid his hand on top of hers, “--you're not an idiot. That's a perfectly reasonable thing to think.”

“Yeah, well.” She tried to smile again, this attempt even more tragic than the last. “I was wrong.” She pulled her hand away and hid her face behind it. “God, this is so embarrassing. I know I shouldn't be out in public right now, but I can't go back to my empty flat right now. It's just too depressing.”

“Then don't. Go to the pub instead. Get so pissed that you can't do anything but stumble home and pass out face first on your sofa. You'll feel like such shit in the morning, you won't even be able to remember Michael’s name over the pounding in your head.” When she laughed, Harry grinned and added, “Might not be the healthiest advice, but that's what I do.”

“What you do?” Cho asked with an incredulous laugh that almost sounded genuine. “When was the last time someone chucked you? Ginny? That was years ago!”

Harry turned to sneak a glimpse at Pansy, who was still standing behind him. She remained silent, her eyes flickering between him and Cho. “Actually,” he began, shifting in his seat. “I went through a break up a few weeks ago myself.”

“Oh, Harry, I'm so sorry. I didn't even know you were seeing anyone.”

“Well, I mean, we weren't...we didn't tell many people. Any people, really.”

“She didn't want to deal with the press,” Cho said with an understanding nod, a statement rather than a question.

Harry opened his mouth to correct her, but shut it quickly. If he told her any more, it might lead to other questions. Questions like, 'what was her name?' Questions that he wasn't sure he was ready to answer yet. “We were only together eight months,” he said instead, throwing in a small shrug. “It's not that big of a deal.”

“Oh, but a lot can happen in eight months! Michael and I were only together seven, but I...” She sighed deeply. “I really loved him, you know? Did you love her?”

Harry couldn't bring himself to look at Pansy, though he could feel her behind him, watching his closely. “I...” He didn't know what to say, and had a feeling the answer he wanted to give was not the one he knew was true. “I don't really... I mean, it wasn't really... We weren't like that.”

Cho sat forward, resting her hand on top of his. “It's all right; you don't have to answer if you don't want. It was a personal thing to ask.” She gave him a small, encouraging smile. “She's an idiot either way, letting you slip through her fingers just because she was scared of the attention it would bring.” Her voice was wistful, full of sadness. “Some people just don't appreciate what a miracle it is to be loved, you know? To care about another person that deeply...there's nothing like it in this world; it's the best feeling there is. But if people can't appreciate it, well, they don't deserve it, do they? Michael doesn't deserve me, and she didn't deserve you.”

She stared at him expectantly, waiting for him to agree. But Harry couldn't speak, he could barely breathe. He felt as though someone had put his heart in a vice and was tightening the screws. It had been three lonely, empty years between Ginny and Pansy, three years searching fruitlessly for someone to make him feel something again. He'd found that with Pansy, but then threw it all away. Why? Because he was scared of what people would say? Because it would have been too hard?

“I've got to go,” he stammered, stumbling to his feet. He could hear Cho call after him as he hurried away, but he was already gone, shouldering his way through the thinning crowds. He was halfway through the Leaky's crowded barroom and into Muggle London before he remembered that he was supposed to meet Dean's little sister's best friend there tonight. Fuck that, he thought as his feet hit the pavement. He didn't have another second to waste.

***

She lived above a lingerie shop in Soho, and it was dark by the time he reached her flat. He hoped that none of the passers-by thought he was just some perv lurking around, ogling the half-naked mannequins in the window. He paced the sidewalk, gathering his courage, rehearsing in his mind what he wanted to say. But everything he came up with felt insufficient. 

He felt someone step up behind him, but didn't bother to turn around. He already knew it was her. It was always her. 

“What are you going to say to her?”

“No bloody clue,” he said with a sigh. “Any ideas?”

She raised an eyebrow. “If I know myself, she's going to make this as painful as possible. Telling you what to say would be like cheating.”

“Yeah.” He snorted. “I figured.”

It was now or never, he decided. He'd come up with something. He stepped towards the door to the left of the shop and pressed the button next to her name. Static crackled through the speaker next to the buzzer. 

“Door's open,” came Pansy's distorted voice. “I'm almost ready.”

There was a low, buzzing sound, and then the front door clicked open. There was no way she'd sound so cheery if she knew it was him. Still, he hadn't been expecting to be let into her flat this easy, and wasn't going to spoil an in if given one. He reached for the door, but a hand on his wrist stopped him before he could open it. 

“Think carefully before you speak. She's going to be on the defensive.” 

Harry looked at her over his shoulder, taking in her tight red dress and bright painted lips. The bravado of her outfit was at odds with the uncertainty in her eyes. “I really hurt you, didn't I?”

She gave him a wan, twisted smile and shrugged. “I have a feeling she's used to it.”

Harry turned back to the door and steeled himself. She'd called him a coward once, and she'd been right at the time. But not anymore. He could do this. He could do anything he put his mind to. He was Harry fucking Potter.

A naked lightbulb hanging from the ceiling flickered as he climbed the stairs to the second landing. The door to her flat was slightly ajar, but he knocked anyway before peeking inside. “Pansy?” he called out, taking a step inside and shutting the door behind him with a quiet click.

From the front of the flat, he could see the entire living and down the short hallway that led to her bedroom. The door to her room opened and she stuck her head out, mouth already open, poised to speak. When she saw him, it slammed shut.

She stepped out of her bedroom wearing a silk dressing gown, and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Harry,” she said without a trace of warmth. “What are you doing here?”

He took a tentative step forward “Can we talk?”

“I don't know what you think we have to discuss.”

“A lot of things, actually. Please?”

She uncrossed her arms with a long-suffering sigh. “Fine. But I'm going out soon. You can talk at me while I finish getting ready, but don't expect me to respond.”

She disappeared inside her bedroom, and Harry hastened to follow. Her room was exactly as he remembered: comfortable, but still slightly posh, decorated in warm cream colors with pops of periwinkle. She sat down at her vanity and began to fiddle with her hair.

Awkwardly, Harry perched on the edge of her bed and watched her reflection in the mirror as she pinned her hair into place. “Hot date tonight?” he asked, his nerves making him chuckle stupidly.

Her reply was slightly muffled by the hairpin between her teeth. “Not that it’s any of your business, but yes. I'm having dinner with Brian Seaworthy tonight. You may know him; he works in the Minister's office.”

“But he's a Muggleborn!” Harry blurted. 

If looks could kill, the glare she leveled him in the mirror would have been as deadly as an Avada Kedavra. “Didn't realize you were such a blood purist these days,” she said sharply. “How much you've changed.”

“Not me,” Harry said weakly, wishing he could cram his outburst back inside his mouth. “I just...I didn't think you'd ever date a Muggleborn. I'm just surprised, that's all.” He didn't add that he felt slightly gutted by the thought that she had moved on so quickly.

“I know which way the political winds are blowing, Harry, and I'm not stupid. Brian is being groomed to be Minister one day, and I'd make a wonderful Minister's wife, don't you think?”

He watched her for a moment in the mirror, trying to decide whether she was being serious or not. “That's kind of mercenary, even for you.”

She rested her hands on the top of her vanity and closed her eyes. “Did you just come here to criticize my dating habits, or was there something in particular you wanted?”

Harry reached for Mr. Sparklyhorn, the worn-out stuffed unicorn that sat in the middle of her bed. He was beginning to wonder if coming here was such a good idea in the first place. Just because he couldn't seem to move on, didn't mean that she was having that same problem. 

“It wasn't like that with me, was it?” he asked. “You weren't just with me because of who I am, right?”

“Being Harry Potter's secret bit on the side never did me any good, if that's what you're asking,” she said acidly. She stood and snatched the stuffed unicorn from his hands. “You've lost the right to touch Mr Sparklyhorn.”

He mumbled an apology and returned to the impossible task of figuring out what to do with his hands.

She sat back down at her vanity, placing Mr Sparklyhorn next to her collection of perfumes, and uncapped a number of jars. “I'm going to ask you once more, and then I'm going to kick you out,” she said as she powdered her nose furiously. “Why are you here?”

Harry folded his hands in his lap and looked down, wondering how he was going to find a way to say all that he wanted to say, when he wasn't even sure exactly what he wanted to say in the first place. He'd never been good about expressing his feelings; he was used to taking action more than talking things through. But this wasn't the sort of problem he could fight his way through; he had to say _something_ to get her to understand why he'd come.

Eventually, he settled on: “My bed still smells like you.”

She paused, lowering her powder puff. “Sorry?”

“My bed,” he repeated. “The sheets. I can still smell you on them.”

She held his eyes in the mirror for a second, and for a mad, happy moment he thought he might have said the right thing to crack her shell. But then the tension broke, and she was back to applying the translucent powder to her face. “Then wash them. Jesus, Harry, it's been a month. That's just unhygienic.”

“I have. I just mean that...I don't know. I miss you. A lot. I can't stop thinking about you.”

“Sounds like a personal problem to me.”

Harry squirmed. Difficult was an understatement; she was making this bloody impossible. “Do you miss me ever?” he asked bravely, holding his breath as he waited for her response.

Her hands slowed, and she chanced a glance at him in the mirror. “Does it even matter? You're still you, and I'm still me.” That wasn't a no, Harry realized, heart speeding up. It wasn't quite a yes, but it definitely wasn't a no either. “And besides--” she picked up a tube of mascara, “--I'm with Brian now. At least _he_ isn't ashamed to be seen with me in public.”

Harry looked down again, shame creeping in and making his stomach churn. Guilt gnawed at him like flesh-eating virus. “I'm sorry if I made you feel that way, but I wasn't ashamed of you, not really. It was just...complicated. ”

Her voice was flat, devoid of all emotion when she answered. “No, it really wasn't. Either you wanted to be with me, or you didn't. You, apparently, didn't.”

“But I did! I wanted to be with you, it was just everything else that I didn't want. The drama, the baggage. Your friends, my friends, the war, the public...everything. It was too much, and when you told me that you loved me and wanted everyone to know about us, I just...I sort of freaked out.” He sighed, feeling wretched. “I'm sorry.”

Instantly, she was on her feet. Before Harry even had a moment to realize what was happening, the inside of her palm was crashing against his cheek. Compared to the hits he took in the field, it hardly hurt, but the slap shocked him into momentary silence. Raising a hand to his smarting cheek, he looked at her with wide eyes.

He had broken her shell all right, but instead of seeing the warmth and adoration that she had once held for him in her eyes, there was piercing anger. “How dare you mention that!” she demanded, voice shaking almost violently. “I only told you that because I trusted you! Why would you come back here and throw it in my face? Are you _trying_ to humiliate me?”

“I'm not here to humiliate you!” he yelped, leaping to his feet. He was hurt and confused, and it only made sense to match volume with volume. She took an instinctive step back, reaching behind her for the edge of the vanity. “I'm here to tell you that I miss you, and that I want you back! I came to tell you that I bloody well love you too!”

Her mouth fell open, pursed in a dumb looking “o” shape. The moment dragged out as she stared at him, her dark eyes searching his. Slowly, she shook her head. “I don't know what sick game you're playing, Harry, but don't you think you've done enough? Can't you just leave me alone?” 

“No, I can't,” he answered, irrationally angry and so, so frustrated. For once, he didn't even think about where his hands were. “Because you won’t leave me alone either. You're in my head, Pansy. I think about you all the fucking time. Everywhere I go, I see you. I can't even go lunch with my fucking mates without thinking about you the whole time. It's like you’re haunting me.”

Her lip curled. “Good. You deserve to be haunted. And you're fucking mental if you think I'd ever get back with you after what you did to me. Do you know how hard it was for me to say that to you? _I trusted you._ And you chucked me, that very same night! I--” she faltered, and for a moment Harry thought that the tears that had welled in her eyes were about to fall. Instead, the line of her jaw hardened and her fists turned into balls. “And I hate you for it!”

Suddenly, her tiny fists were pounding against his chest. There was little force behind the blows, it was like being swatted by an irate child. He grabbed her wrists, and she struggled, trying to twist out of his grip.

“Let me go!” she yelled, her voice finally breaking. She stopped struggled as the tears she'd been trying so stubbornly to hold back began to fall. “I hate you,” she repeated weakly.

Harry reached out to cup her cheek, brushing away her tears with the pad of his thumb. “And I love you,” he said as calmly as he could, though his heart was simultaneously thundering and breaking inside his chest. He stared at her intently, willing her to return his gaze. If only she would look at him, she'd see the sincerity in his eyes. “Please, Pansy, if you have any affection left for me...”

Her chest was heaving as she took deep breaths through her open mouth. Slowly, her eyes fluttered up to meet his. She looked as though she was poised to say something, but at that exact moment, the front door buzzer sounded, effectively shattering the moment. 

Harry didn't stop her when she wrenched her hands away to run them through her hair, ruining all the careful pinning she'd just done. “Shit. That'll be Brian. Just... just stay here, all right? And don't make a fucking sound.”

She pulled her dressing gown shut and scampered out of the room. Harry followed into the hall, watching as she hesitated a moment before pressing the button on the intercom. 

“Brian?” she asked, her voice suddenly weak and scratchy. “Did you get my owl?”

There was a pause before a distorted, tinny voice replied. _“No? Is there something wrong?”_

“You must have just missed it.” She added a tiny cough. “I'm sorry, darling, but I can't go out tonight. The sushi I had for lunch did not agree with me at all. Can we reschedule for another time?”

_“Of course we can. Do you want me to come up? I can ring my mum and get her chicken soup recipe.”_

There was a hollowness to her voice. “I'd rather you not see me like this.” 

_“All right,”_ was his simple reply. _“I'll bring you some tomorrow, though. No arguing.”_

She sighed. “No arguing. Goodnight, Brian.”

_“Goodnight, Pansy. Feel better.”_

Releasing the intercom, Pansy rested her forehead against the wall. She stayed like that, unmoving, for a minute, before lifting her head and squaring her shoulders. Harry tried to jump back into the bedroom unnoticed, but she caught him before he could slip inside. Turning on her heel, she stormed through the living room and down the hall. 

“I thought I told you to stay in the room,” she said as she slammed the bedroom door behind her. 

Harry said nothing, just observed her. She seemed determined, her heart-shaped chin jutting out defiantly. She took a step towards him, and Harry retreated one, and then another, until the back of his knees hit the edge of her bed. She shoved him hard, and he fell backwards onto the bed.

“Did you mean it?” she demanded, stepping into the space between his legs. “The man I just sent away is a good man, an honest man, a man who genuinely cares about me. I need to know that you meant it.”

Dumbly, Harry nodded. He did mean it, he truly did. 

She held his gaze steady. “Prove it.”

He stared at her, mind whirling as he tried to decipher the meaning behind her challenge. He'd told her the truth, but how was he expected to prove it? There was no one there but them, no one bear witness to his confession. What could he do to show how serious he was?

Harry reached out, taking her hand in his. She stared at their joined hands, eyebrow arched, clearly unimpressed. He tugged hard, and she landed on top of him so that they were chest to chest, nose to nose. Her face was so close that if he tried to look into her eyes, he'd only see one, so instead he concentrated on her lips. They were full and soft and curling slightly, though he couldn't tell if it was into a smile or a sneer.

“Is this your brilliant plan then?” she asked, her lips brushing his. “Going to fuck your way back into my good graces? You're a good lay, Harry, but you're not that good.”

Her hair felt like strands of silk as he carded his hand through them, tucking a stray piece behind her ear. She closed her eyes, and he felt a shiver run through her body. “I'm not going to fuck you,” he whispered. Deftly, he flipped them so she was pinned beneath him. “I'm going to make love to you.”

She rolled her eyes, pushing her head into the mattress so he could see the entirety of her repulsed expression. “Oh, Jesus Christ, Harry. Of all the sentimen--”

He cut her off with a kiss. She made a surprised noise and squirmed for a moment, before giving up and melting into it. In truth, he was surprised by how little she resisted, how easily her lips parted to let him in. It had been a month since they last snogged, but it was easier and more familiar than riding a broom. Her eyes fell shut and she made a little humming noise in the back of her throat, a clear invitation for him to continue.

His hands skated down her side, coasting over the slick silk of her dressing gown. He fumbled with the sash and parted the fabric, gliding his hand back up the curves of her body, pausing to palm her generous breasts. He ducked his head to kiss her neck, teasing the delicate skin near the hollow of her throat with his teeth. Nibbling a trail back up, he bit the bottom of her ear and whispered, “Get in the middle of the bed.”

The noise she made—a breathy little moan—sent a corresponding thrill down his spine. He sat back enough for her to wiggle out from underneath him and crawl towards the head of the bed. She cast a glance at him over her shoulder and arched her back, sticking her arse into the air. 

“Is this what you want from me, Harry?” There was heat in her eyes, but a distinct bitterness in her voice. “Is this what you've missed so much?”

Harry followed her to the middle of the bed. “No,” he said solemnly, peeling her dressing gown off her shoulders and dropping a soft kiss to the nape of her neck. He maneuvered her onto her back and settled himself on top of her, his hips in the space between her modestly parted legs. “I miss _you_. This--” his hand traveled the length of her body, slipping between her legs to cup her mound, “--is just a perk.” 

Her breath hitched as he began to rub, and he could feel her wetness begin to seep through the lace of her knickers. He lowered his head to kiss the swell of her breasts, biting gently—just enough so that he left a faint red mark behind, but not enough to cause actual pain. 

“You've got--” she said, gasping as his fingers slipped inside her knickers and traced the length of her slit, “--a funny way of saying you want me for more than my body.”

His fingers probed deeper, sliding between her folds and seeking out her clit. “Do you want me to stop?” he asked against her skin.

A broken laugh. “Fuck no.”

He didn't continue playing with her clit, though he loved the way she writhed beneath him when he did. He wanted to make her come, he was _going_ to make her come, but he wanted to take it slow. It was a dramatic change from how they usually fucked—hard and fast and fucking raunchy—but if he couldn't properly express how he felt with words, he'd try to do it with actions. 

He abandoned her breasts and kissed a line down her stomach, loving the way the muscles tensed below his lips, until he was between her legs, sucking the damp crotch of her knickers into his mouth, tasting the tangy sweetness of her arousal that has soaked through the fabric.

When his hands hooked around the elastic waistline, he felt her entire body tense.

Her voice was quieter than normal, almost nervous. “You don't have to do that.”

Harry rested his cheek against her thigh and brought one hand down to idly stroke her swollen lips through the thin piece of lace. “But I want to.”

He could hear her breathing heavily, but didn't look up, instead focusing on his fingers as they played. He didn't want to push too hard, knowing this would be a big step for them. In all their time together, she'd never once let him go down on her, always squirming out of his grip and mumbling excuses about it being 'too intimate.' But now he knew that he wanted that sort of intimacy with her, and he needed to let her know it.

When she didn't answer, he buried his face between her legs and inhaled. She laughed, though it sounded uncertain. He made sure that his appreciative moan was loud enough for her to hear. “I want to taste you. My god, Pansy. You smell so good.”

A resolute exhale came from above, and then her hips lifted off the bed in silent permission. Harry wanted to shout hallelujah, but maintained his composure as he peeled off her knickers and got his first, unhurried look at her naked cunt in far too long. She was beautiful: slick pink folds, swollen and glistening in the dim light of the bedroom, bracketed by flawless, creamy white thighs. He parted her lips with his fingers and leaned forward, sticking out the tip of his tongue to swirl around her clit. 

Although she moaned, he could still feel the tension in her muscles, the self-consciousness in her reaction. He soldiered on, eating her out with reverence, moaning and humming appreciatively as he buried his face between her legs. 

Slowly, she started to relax, and even began a series of tiny but encouraging hip rolls. But it wasn't until he slipped two fingers inside and began to slowly fuck her with his hand that she unfurled completely, like a flower blooming into life after a long, cold winter. Embarrassment forgotten, her thighs inched further and further apart until she was opened wide for him.

Harry's face was completely covered in her wetness; he could feel it on his cheek, his chin, his nose. But he didn't care. He'd gladly have bathed in it had she asked, anything for proof that she'd finally let him do this. Every one of his senses was overwhelmed by her: the way she tasted, the way she felt, the way she smelled, and sounded, and looked. He was having trouble breathing, but didn't let that distract him. He just took another deep breath and sucked harder on her clit, encouraged and out of his mind aroused by the way she was now shamelessly trying to hump his face, feet pressed flat against the mattress and hips in the air.

His cock was painfully hard, stuck between his stomach and the bed. He almost thought he could come just from this, untouched and rutting against the mattress, his head trapped between her surprisingly strong thighs. When her hand settled of the back of his head, her fingers curling through his hair and pulling his face against her harder, he worried that he actually might.

But her breathing soon became erratic and her legs began to shake. The constant grind of her hips turned jerky, and her bare moans formed into broken 'almost-theres' and 'just-like-thats.' Her entire body seized when she finally came. He felt the muscles inside her pulse as her taste exploded on his tongue. But still, he didn't relent. He ignored the burning need for oxygen and lapped up her tangy, sticky arousal until her body relaxed and she sank into the mattress, utterly spent.

He pressed a final kiss to the inside of each of her thighs, and crawled on top of her, covering her body with his own.

“You're sticky,” she said, wrinkling her nose. He mumbled an apology and moved to wipe his mouth with the back of his hand, but she sat up quickly and grabbed his face, dragging her tongue over his chin and up his cheek. Settling back against the pillows, she smirked. “I _do_ taste good.”

Harry's heart felt just a little bit lighter. 

“You know who else tastes really good?” she asked, her grin turning feral. Her hand shot out with a sniper's precision to grab his cock through his trousers. “You.”

A moan tried to escape him, but he swallowed it back as best he could. It took every ounce of self-control he had to push her hands away as she reached for his fly. 

“What's wrong?” 

“Nothing.” He leaned down to nuzzle her neck. “Don't you see what I'm trying to say? This isn't about sex, this is about you, and it’s about the fact that I love you. I just wanted to make you feel good. I want to make you happy. ”

She laughed, a high-pitched assault to the ears that made Harry's heart swell to hear. Her hands snaked around his neck, pulling him on top of her. 

“Oh, Harry,” she said, lifting her head to kiss him. “There's no need to play the sexual martyr. I knew that months ago. Of course you're in love with me; it's _me_ we're talking about. _You_ were the one who needed to figure it out. And I knew I was going to take you back the moment you showed up on my doorstep, looking like someone'd just kicked your puppy. I love you, you stupid arsehole. I just wanted to watch you sweat it out a bit.” 

Harry's jaw dropped, and she laughed again, sitting up enough that she could bite his lower lip. “And you deserved a good smacking while I was at it,” she added. “Teach you to try and break my heart next time.”

Harry stared at her in disbelief. “What about Seaworthy?”

“What about him? He's a nice bloke, easy on the eyes, but he's not you.” She waggled her eyebrows. “Made you jealous though, didn't it? My plan worked to perfection,” she preened.

Plan? She'd had a plan? Was it just to make him jealous, or was it larger than that? “You didn't cast any spells on me recently, did you?”

She looked at him like he was utterly daft for a moment. “No, but I can if you want me to.” She grinned, pushing him onto his back. She straddled his hips and reached for belt. “Have you ever heard of consensual _Imperio?_ Just think about it, Harry, one flick of my wand and I could turn you into my mindless little fucktoy. Or--” she shrugged, “you could do it to me. Either way.”

Harry groaned, thinking that he did, in fact, love Pansy Parkinson. Very fucking much.

***

Pansy tapped her toe nervously as they stood in front of the heavy, wooden door. With his hand on the small of her back, Harry bent down and whispered, “Are you ready?”

She bit her lip, looking up at him. “Yes. No. Maybe. Fuck, I don't know. This was a bad idea. What was I thinking? Being secretive is fun. It's sexy! We should really reconsider. Going public is overrated anyway.”

Instead of responding, Harry just gave her a look. There was no way he was going to letting her off the hook, not after the hell he'd gone through over this. 

“Oh, fine,” she huffed. “Have it your way. Are we even sure that someone from the Prophet is in there?”

“I called in the anonymous tip this morning, just like you told me to. There will be _at least_ one reporter, if not more, inside already.”

“Ugh,” she groaned. “I'm too clever for my own good. And have I mentioned how much I fucking hate the Leaky Cauldron? Couldn't we just have arranged to be caught _in flagrante_ at some big Minstry event? That would have been so much more glamorous.”

“We're doing it like this precisely because it's _not_ glamorous, or scandalous, or any other sort of '-ous.' It's precisely what we talked about, what _you_ said you wanted.”

“What I wanted was to be the Minister's wife,” she grumbled.

“I might never be the Minister of Magic, but I am incredibly famous.”

“You are that.” She gave him a begrudging smile. “And you're also filthy rich.”

“Don't forget devastatingly handsome.”

She rolled her eyes. “I don't know about devastatingly, but I wouldn't kick you out of bed.”

Harry made a noise of mock outrage. He grabbed her by the waist and pulled her against him. “You couldn't kick me out of bed if you tried.”

“Only because I'm so dainty and delicate, and you're a hunkering brute.”

His hands traveled down her backside, squeezing her arse. “Delicate is a word that shouldn't even be in your vocabulary. And no one who snores as loudly as you do can be described as dainty.”

“Oh, Harry,” she said sweetly, staring up at him with adoration in her eyes. “Shut the fuck up.”

He leaned in, rubbing his nose against hers. “Only if you do first.”

She laughed, and pushed him away. “My god, we're repulsive.” Straightening up, she turned back to the pub's entrance. “I guess we'd better get this over with then. Are you sure you wouldn't rather get caught giving it to me hard at the Ministry Christmas party? It seems so much more our style.”

Harry opened the door, giving her a gentle shove through it. “Stop stalling, you brat.”

Saturday nights at the Leaky were always busy, and no one seemed to notice them enter. The room was crowded, dark, and noisy. 

“Brat?” Pansy called over her shoulder. “What are you going to do about it, Harry? Spank me?”

Harry detected the slight edge to her voice. He took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Only if you're good.” He led her to the center of the barroom, where they would be visible to any and all who happened to look in their direction. “Ready?”

Squaring her shoulders, she nodded. “Ready.”

It was the same every time they kissed, the world around them just seemed to slip away. Harry could vaguely hear the room go quiet, followed by excited chatter and the bright flash of light from a reporter's camera. He focused on the slick glide of Pansy's lips against his own, the overwhelming sensation of 'rightness' he felt when she was in his arms. He pulled away, resting his forehead against hers. 

“Welcome to the front pages.”

He could feel her grin against his lips. “Bring it on.”


End file.
